


I'm Not Always Like This, It's Something I've Become

by demisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're tall enough to reach the dais, but the crown is heavy and you nearly drop it. When you lift it and nestle it on golden locks, the rim tries to slip over your eyes, but you push it back and make your next goal climbing onto the throne. It is made of the melted swords of cowardly enemies, melted by dragon fire but still sharp. When you climb atop and shift to press your back to the metal, your feet don't even touch the floor. They dangle, and you kick - but that's not very kingly, so you right yourself and call down to your sister:</p><p><i>Well?</i> You ask. <i>Do I look kingly?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Always Like This, It's Something I've Become

**Author's Note:**

> Another roleplay inspired dream sequence, with mad prompts to my friend Eppy (I don't think she has an AO3) who wrote something like this on LJ/DW that inspired me. Love ya, girl!
> 
> Cheers~

It is late and the castle is asleep. You should be asleep. You _should_ be asleep, but you're not. You should be in bed, you should have been caught; you should have been caught already and scolded and sent back to your rooms, but you haven't been, for there was a time when you thought you knew the stone corridors and their shadows better than anyone else in the entirety of King's Landing. You were most at home in them, for your mother could not find you and your father could not see you when you dogged after him and watched his back when you dared peer around a corner. You're a master sneak. You're not very good at other things, but this is a field you excel in. 

It is distinctly harder to sneak _quietly_ with a toddler in hand. 

Myrcella is young; her legs are still plump with baby fat and her face grows ruddy easily when she cries. Her fat little bare feet make loud slapping noises on the stones, and you have to all but _drag_ her, but she'd wanted to go. It had been a secondary thought (only after dismissing the idea of taking the babe, Tommen, from his cradle) to stop by her rooms, sneak past her sleeping maids and shake her from sleep. _Do you want to see something?_ you'd asked her, and with her eyes still crusted with sleep, she'd nodded her head, _Yes._ You think you regret it now. You think she's about to cry and any moment, and make sure to remind her often - and in a hushed tone - to keep quiet, or else she'd get handed over to Ser Ilyn Payne. It does the trick and her whimpers are reserved and hushed.

In that manner, the two of you reach the throne room unmolested.

You'd always liked the throne room. You always liked to think that one day it would be yours, for one day it would. But at night, you liked to pretend that day was today.

You drop your sisters hand and climb the steps with confidence. At the top of the dais, a small pedestal holds a plush cushion and on the silks, the crown is nestled. You're tall enough to reach the dais, but the crown is heavy and you nearly drop it. When you lift it and nestle it on golden locks, the rim tries to slip over your eyes, but you push it back and make your next goal climbing onto the throne. It is made of the melted swords of cowardly enemies, melted by dragon fire but still sharp. When you climb atop and shift to press your back to the metal, your feet don't even touch the floor. They dangle, and you kick - but that's not very kingly, so you right yourself and call down to your sister:

 _Well?_ You ask. _Do I look kingly?_

But she's begun to weep - loudly, and with fat droplets rolling down her ruddy pink cheeks to collect under her chin and fall into her night dress. _Joffy - I want to go. I don't want to be here -_

_Stop it!_

_Joffy, I want mother -_

_Stop it, you're ruining it!_

But she continues to weep, and you're forced to dismount the throne. You cut your palm and the blood stains your own sleep shirt as you wipe it hurriedly before taking off the crown that isn't yours yet. This time you manage to drop it, but there's no dent and you haul it back onto its cushion before running down the steps and taking Myrcella by the hand and dragging her out of the room. The night was over, and the next day would still leave this reality out of your reach.

You welcomed the next day.


End file.
